?
In the morning, the city’s sounds came early—the rumble of delivery carts, the cries of newspaper boys. Violet dressed in a plain but well-kept gown of deep blue wool, her hair braided and pinned. At the mirror, she studied the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. She could not tell which side of the family, adoptive or unknown, that each feature came from. The doubt was always there, a faint shadow beneath her skin.
At the milliner’s, the hours passed in a pleasant rhythm of trimming hats, arranging ribbons, and serving customers. Yetthe weight of the letter in her satchel seemed to follow her, an unspoken pull toward something far away.
By the time she returned home, the day’s light was fading. She set out paper and ink on the desk, her pen poised. She hesitated only once before writing:
Mr. McBride,
I received your letter of December third and have considered your proposal. While I am unaccustomed to such a correspondence, I cannot deny a curiosity about both yourself and the life you describe. If you are willing to tell me more of your circumstances and expectations, I will endeavor to do the same.
Respectfully,
Violet Carter
She sanded the ink, folded the paper, and sealed it before she could think better of it. The post would take it away in the morning, over miles of land and river, toward a man she had never met.
And perhaps, toward the answer to a question she had carried all her life.
Chapter Two: The Ranch
The north wind worried at the warped shutters on Thomas McBride’s cabin, slipping through the cracks with a damp chill that clung to everything it touched. He sat at his scarred pine table with a chipped coffee cup in one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other, though he was more attuned to the distant thud of hoof beats than to the print before him. The post came irregularly out here—sometimes once a week, sometimes not for three—and when it did, it carried more damp ink and gossip than true news, yet always with the chance of something that mattered.
The rider reined up, tossed a small bundle of papers and envelopes onto the porch, and wheeled his horse toward the next spread without so much as a wave.
Thomas set down his cup, crossed the creaking floor, and scooped up the bundle. A couple of bills. An offer from a supplier he’d likely never pay in full. And—he froze—an envelope addressed to “Mr. Thomas McBride” in a neat, feminine hand. Boston, Massachusetts.
His mouth tugged into a slow grin.
He dropped into the chair, slit the envelope with his thumb, and read. The handwriting was precise, the tone measured, but she’d written back.She was interested enough to answer.That was more than half the battle.
Thomas leaned back until the chair balanced on two legs. He could picture her already: some proper little city lady, pale as milk and dainty as porcelain. The sort who would faint dead away if she saw the condition of his ranch—or him, on most days. But that wasn’t the point. He didn’t need her for moonlit walks or soft talk. He needed an extra pair of hands. Someone to mend his shirts, cook decent meals, and tend the kitchen garden he never had time for. The men he hired drifted in and out with the seasons, and he wasn’t about to pay wages for what a wife could do without pay or complaint.
He reached for paper, smoothing it over the table. The pen in his hand was nothing fancy—just a plain wooden holder fitted with a steel nib he’d bought in town for a few cents.
He dipped it carefully, watching the ink climb the metal, then tapped it against the bottle’s rim before setting it to paper. Then he began to write—not the plain truth, but the truth molded, varnished, and polished until it shone. The nib scratched faintly, a rasping sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. Now and again it caught on the coarse fibers of the paper. His hand was more accustomed to reins and branding irons than to letters, and his fingers tightened on the holder as if it might slip away.
The smell of iron ink drifted up, sharp beneath the faint odor of dust and oil from the lamp. He bent close, lips moving with each word he shaped, the letters plain but deliberate.
Miss Carter,
I was pleased to receive your letter and learn that you are willing to hear more about my life here. My ranch lies on a fine stretch of land not far from a large river, with good grazing for the cattle and a view that runs clear to the horizon. The air here is clean, the skies broad and blue most days, and the sun warms the landearly in the year. Winters are mild, and the soil is rich enough to grow near anything a body might plant. I’ve never myself been to Boston, but I hear tell it is not a paradise and doesn’t hold a candle to the life you would have here.
My home is a sound-built place with a fine porch for sitting in the evenings, and a creek is close enough for fishing. I have a small herd of cattle, sound stock that fetches a good price, and two strong horses of my own training. My neighbors are few but neighborly, and the nearest town, though modest, has all a household might require.
Life here is not without its demands. It is honest work, and it rewards those willing to put their hands to it. I am a man who believes in fairness, in keeping to one’s word, and in tending to those under my roof. I believe you could be content here, Miss Carter, and I would endeavor to see that you are.
If you should wish to come, I can arrange for your fare.
Respectfully,
Thomas McBride
Thomas read it over, lips curved up. Sound-built home? The roof leaked when the wind blew from the north, and the boards in the back wall had a gap wide enough to let in a rattler if it felt inclined. Fine porch? The boards sagged like a swayback mule. Small herd? He’d sold half of it two months back to cover a debt. But the thing about letters was—she’d never know until she was here, and by then, she’d have little choice but to stay.
He sealed the letter, set it aside, and poured himself another cup of coffee. The brew was thick and bitter, but it did the job.
From the front step, he could see most of the spread: a few dozen acres of prairie grass matted flat and brown from winter’s damp chill, the barn still listing from last year’s storm, and his one good horse, Charley, stamping a hoof against the cold in the corral. The rest of it—patched fences, empty feed barrels—he’d ignored. She didn’t need to picture this. She needed the version that would draw her out here, three weeks by stage and steamer.
